


When I Am with You

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (both past), Blow Jobs, Champagne, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Gift Giving, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Religious Guilt, Self-Hatred, Vacation, i have been sleepless for a full WEEK because of this damn movie, i wrote this at 3 AM because i couldn't sleep, not quite top!nicky but definitely references to him, title is whatever but at least it's not a song lyric for once, you can all thank a lil show called Strike Back for inspiring this i suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25412161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: “You... would like to waste a thousand euros’ worth of champagne by pouring it all over me?” Nicky has to repeat it aloud to make sure he’s heard right.While spending some quality time together on vacation in France, Nicky has a surprise for Joe. And Joe, as it turns out, has a surprise for Nicky.Or: just one of many, many times they enjoy champagne together.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 98
Kudos: 946





	When I Am with You

**Author's Note:**

> Who knew a throwaway line where Joe perks up at the thought of champagne could sprout a whole fic in my head? (I did. I knew.) Please enjoy some champagne-fueled sex between our favorite immortal husbands.

Nicky waits until after they have finished dinner, and taken in the moonrise, before retrieving the bottle of champagne. He clears the table first, shaking off Joe’s offer of assistance but not his kiss of gratitude, and deposits the dishes in the sink. He washes his hands before reaching into the fridge and sliding out the bottle he hid behind their other groceries early this morning.

The bottle has been chilling all day and it is deliciously cold against his fingertips, a perfect contrast to the warm and slightly muggy evening settling around them. He takes the flutes from a top shelf—another early morning buy; this farmhouse they’ve rented a few hours outside Bordeaux didn’t exactly come equipped with the proper glassware—and he slips them carefully between his fingers, where they dangle but do not clink.

Joe is sitting just as Nicky left him—on the back porch, legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. One hand is tucked behind his neck, massaging the skin there. A moment’s indecision puckers Nicky’s face, wondering if he’s sore, but a second later the hand slides away and falls to his lap, Joe letting out a contented sigh, and Nicky knows there is nothing to worry about after all.

He circles around the little table, proffering the bottle like a waiter would, label visible, casing intact on top. Joe glances at it briefly before his eyes snap upward to meet Nicky’s—and then back down again. He takes the neck of the bottle in his hands, holding tightly, aware of the slippery layer of condensation.

“Is this…”

Nicky nods to his unspoken question, a proud smile spreading across his face. Job well done. It isn’t easy surprising someone who’s lived nearly a thousand years.

“Genuine,” he confirms aloud, for Joe is still studying the label expertly, as if searching out a forgery. “You do not trust me?” he teases, letting Joe take the bottle as he sets the glasses down.

“I trust you more than anyone who has ever or will ever exist on this earth,” Joe replies without pause. “But I do not trust my own eyes.”

Nicky chuckles softly. “Go on, then,” he says, nodding at the bottle. “Taste and see.” He clasps his hands together, spreading the cool condensation over his skin before it evaporates in the heat.

Joe gets to his feet with a grin, cradling the bottle the way a father would cradle a newborn—one hand supporting the bottom, one supporting the neck. Gentle, but sure.

Nicky watches Joe trace the embossed label reverently with his thumb before reaching up to rip off the foil and twist the metal casing away from the cork. Curling his hand around the neck of the bottle, he applies slight pressure with his thumb and forefinger to loosen it. Nicky smiles, watching him, waiting.

This is Joe’s favorite part, he knows—the anticipation, the pop, the noise, the feeling of long-held pressure released. It’s as predictable as the sunrise, and yet Joe shouts in triumphant surprise every time. Even after so many hundreds of years together, Nicky always enjoys watching Joe’s childlike glee peek through his adult exterior. No matter how much time they have together, Nicky will never know that portion of Joe’s early life, and so he relishes small glimpses like this that act as a window back in time.

Joe fills each glass, being generous with his pours to the point that Nicky laughs and tells him to stop. They clink and take their first sips in silence, savoring the taste as they sit and stare out into the night. The moon is full and high in the sky, and with no city lights polluting the view, the farmland stretches around them, gently illuminated. It is desolate but not silent. They can hear animals snuffling about, searching for food, and bugs whizzing by, searching for their blood. Nicky listens to the sounds and drinks slowly, grateful for the screen around the porch.

They drank nearly two bottles of wine at dinner, but Nicky doesn’t feel drunk until he’s finished his glass of champagne and he tries to stand up. He nearly falls over his own feet, and he has to throw a hand out to one of the porch’s columns to hold himself steady. He can hear Joe snickering behind him. If Joe were not such a connoisseur, Nicky might suspect this was the reason he prizes champagne so much—because it always, without fail, goes to Nicky’s head faster than any other type of alcohol. 

“You all right over there?” Joe asks, and Nicky nods immediately, murmuring that everything’s fine. Though now that he’s standing, he can’t recall why he got up in the first place.

He looks over to Joe for a clue. There is no clue, there is only the man he has spent nine hundred years with, sitting all the way across the table from him. It’s too far. Nicky takes his chair and drags it loudly across the floorboards until it’s right beside Joe’s. Then he drops down into it, nearly spilling himself onto the floor in the process.

“I am very drunk,” Nicky states, as if realizing for the first time.

“You _are_ very drunk,” Joe confirms with a laugh. He is grinning and staring at Nicky in a way that tells him the inebriation is showing on his face.

“My cheeks,” he huffs, reaching up to cover them.

“Very pink,” Joe affirms happily. “Looking a little sunburnt, I would say.”

He leans over and noses Nicky’s left hand to the side so he can kiss his cheek. When he pulls away and leans over to kiss the right, Nicky has already dropped his other hand of his own accord. Joe kisses him there twice, savoring the heat rising from his flush.

“I love you,” Joe whispers against his skin.

“Mm.” Nicky curls closer to him, pushing against the arm of the chair between them. “I never tire of hearing those words.”

“Good.”

When Joe starts to pull back, Nicky reaches out, somehow managing enough coordination to pull Joe’s lips to his. The kiss is slow and wet and messy, and Nicky leans fully into it, not caring about the arm of the chair digging into his stomach. He lets Joe slip his tongue into his mouth and he feels that familiar pull of desire spreading through him, sparking fires between nerve endings he never thinks much of until they receive such a tantalizing touch.

Joe snakes a hand between the chairs and slides it up Nicky’s thigh. Nicky leans into it, wanting him ever closer, but the damn chairs are in the way, the wooden arms cutting into his ribs as he stretches across. He growls in frustration into the kiss, not realizing until Joe jerks back that he let out a little more annoyance than he’d meant to.

“Ow,” Joe mutters, lifting a hand to his lip. By the time his fingertips touch the bead of blood, the cut beneath has already healed.

“Sorry,” Nicky murmurs, breathless and dazed. He isn’t sure if he’s more embarrassed or wound up, but he does know they can’t continue in these chairs much longer. He feels Joe rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, and he’s about to suggest they go inside when he sees a temporary solution. There, just ten feet away, is a little wooden loveseat tucked into the back corner of the porch.

Nicky surges to his feet, somehow steady this time, and hauls Joe up by the hand. He doesn’t make it more than a step before Joe’s mouth is on his again, hungry and insistent and entirely overwhelming. They stagger backwards towards the loveseat, collapsing onto it without once pausing for breath.

“Wait,” Nicky interrupts, panting as he breaks the kiss.

“What?” Joe leans forward, seeking his mouth once more. “Why are we stopping?”

But Nicky touches his lips with two fingers, holding him at bay as he tries to find his words amidst the jumble of thoughts in his head. Joe takes the opportunity to kiss his fingertips and, when Nicky takes too long to speak, to wrap his tongue around them. Nicky groans when Joe starts sucking.

“I am trying to say something here, Joe.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Joe replies, his voice muffled with his mouth full of Nicky’s fingers.

Nicky closes his eyes, letting out a small noise of frustration. The easy solution would be to simply pull his hand away. But he’s never been good at resisting Joe. Hundreds of years have not improved his score, despite all the practice time available to him.

Somehow, he manages to get a hold of himself. He slips his wet fingers out of Joe’s mouth, but doesn’t move them far. He traces the rise and fall of his lips, strokes his beard.

“I do not know what I would be without you,” he whispers.

Joe smiles. That one is easy. “A priest.”

Nicky rolls his eyes at the familiar dig.

“Had I not corrupted you with my filthy pagan ways,” Joe begins, but Nicky shushes him. Even after all this time, Nicky is still sensitive to old divisions, knowing how they can reverberate through the centuries. But Joe merely smiles. “I know you like my filthy pagan ways,” he murmurs, “just as I like your…”

Nicky raises his eyebrows expectantly as Joe trails off. “My…?” 

Joe leans back, thinking. After a moment, he shrugs, shaking it off. “I am too drunk to think of something clever,” he admits matter-of-factly.

“Oh, sure, that is the reason.”

“But,” Joe continues, ignoring him, holding one finger aloft, “I have thought of something else filthy I would like to do. Unrelated to pagans this time. I think.”

“Mmm.” Nicky hums, spreading his legs as wide as his jeans will allow. A lazy smile takes over his face. “Do tell.”

Joe grins, holding Nicky’s eye as he takes a swig of champagne straight from the bottle. Nicky hadn’t even noticed he’d grabbed it from the table. He really must be drunk, Nicky thinks in amusement. A sober Joe would never drink straight from such a nice bottle. Nicky’s almost wondering if he should feel affronted at seeing his gift used in such a way when Joe leans forward and whispers something in his ear.

His breath is hot, clouding at Nicky’s ear, and at first he’s so focused on how good that feels that he doesn’t quite hear. Or maybe he does hear—but he just can’t believe.

When Joe pulls back, he has that secretive, close-mouthed smile that always slinks onto his face at moments like this. It’s his _Give me what I want_ look. Nicky’s answer is nearly always yes. But this time...

Nicky has to focus to think. Focus to truly understand the words Joe just whispered to him.

“You... You would like to waste a thousand euros’ worth of champagne by pouring it all over me?” Nicky has to repeat it aloud just to make sure he’s heard right.

“Well, it’s really only five hundred euros at this point,” Joe replies, holding up the half-empty bottle. “And I don’t consider it a waste if I get to lick it all off you.”

Nicky’s stomach drops so fast he feels the sudden need to sit down.

It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s already sitting down. And by then, Joe’s lips are making their way across the length of his neck, sucking and kissing and generally driving him insane.

“It’s not enough just to taste it on your tongue, Nico. I want to taste it all over you. Let me.”

Nicky closes his eyes, feeling his heart start to thunder in his chest. How many times has he heard those words over the centuries? _Let me, Let me, Let me._ They have never led him astray. They have never left him with anything but a smile on his face afterwards.

He blinks his eyes open, his body suddenly feeling both heavy and wired with anticipation. Joe has lifted his lips from his neck and is watching him, waiting for permission despite the fact that he always has it implicitly.

“If you so desire it…”

The words leave Nicky’s lips without a thought, though he can see the spark of remembrance glinting in Joe’s dark eyes, and that makes him remember too. Nicky first said those words to him nearly seven hundred years ago.

Yusuf—this back when he had no other name—had been down on his knees before Nicolò, looking up at him hopefully. As if he were a saint, Nicolò remembers thinking at the time. No—as if he were God. Yusuf had asked for something then too, his lips parted and yearning, and though Nicolò had not fully understood it then, what it was he wanted, he could sense the desire and he did not know how to refuse it.

So he had said those same words, trusting that if Yusuf wanted something so badly as to go to his knees for it, it must be right. Or if not _right_ —for surely nothing was quite _right_ between them—then it would at least be worth the consequences.

Yusuf had moved quickly once Nicolò had consented, pulling his leggings down and shoving his tunic above his hips. Yusuf had taken him in his mouth in a way that seemed to Nicolò at the time as masterful. (He’s since learned it had been pure desire fueling him past a novice’s uncertainty, but that hardly mattered.) Nicolò had never felt anything like it, though of course he had heard whispers. Rumors. Tales of sinful things, crimes against the Almighty.

He shoved such thoughts out of his head, focusing instead on Yusuf’s mouth and tongue and hands, letting them take over his mind along with his body. Nicolò could feel his body shuddering as it went on, and at some point his hips began jerking up of their own accord so often and so violently that Yusuf had to hold him down.

“You will choke me if you keep doing that,” he warned, panting as he pulled off. His eyes and hair were wild, lips red and swollen and wet with more than just saliva. He was the picture of debauchery and it only made Nicolò want more. He couldn’t understand why they were stopping.

“But—you will survive it, no?” he asked breathlessly.

They stared at each other for a charged, wordless moment—and then Yusuf burst out laughing. Nicolò flushed on instinct, not understanding what was funny and too embarrassed to ask. He looked down, and then—upon seeing himself, so rigid and exposed—had to look away.

Yusuf’s calloused hands on his bare thighs brought him back.

“I suppose you are right,” Yusuf admitted, still chuckling. “I would survive it. Or I would come back from it. But for now… try to lie still, yes?”

Nicolò did as asked—or at least he did his best. It was nearly impossible to lie there and not react while Yusuf’s tongue did such wonderful things to him. Eventually it became so much that he couldn’t hold himself together—bit by bit, and then all at once, the world fell apart around him and he lost control. His body seized and collapsed, his vision spotting as his ears ceased functioning. He wondered at first if he had died, if too much pleasure had somehow killed him.

He hadn’t realized he’d spoken the thought aloud until Yusuf laughed.

“Perhaps you died a little,” Yusuf admitted, looking rather pleased with himself despite the mess on his face. “You did sound like you were in pain.”

“Not in pain.” Nicolò tried to speak convincingly, but his voice came out weak even to his own ears.

“No?” Yusuf bent forward, leaning over Nicolò so they were face to face. “Good.”

Yusuf touched Nicolò’s cheek, brushing a thumb against his lips to part them before ducking down for a kiss. Nicolò froze at first, remembering where that mouth had just been, but soon yielded. Tasting himself on Yusuf’s tongue, he moaned, an echo of earlier pleasure rumbling through his bones.

More than dying and coming back, time and time and _time_ again, it was _this_ that Nicolò didn’t understand. How was he capable of experiencing such an unbelievable amount of pleasure and continuing to exist afterwards?

Surely such a feeling was meant for Heaven alone.

Surely God would strike him down. 

It was, he knew, sinful. Not only the act itself, but the person he was doing it with. The person who had done it to him. The thought made Nicolò’s head hurt, and he broke the kiss, reflexively wiping his mouth clean. Had it been done _to_ him? Maybe he was innocent, then. Maybe he could be forgiven.

But no, hadn’t he begged once it had begun, and asked greedily for more? Hadn’t he tangled his hands in Yusuf’s hair, pushed his hips into Yusuf’s mouth? Hadn’t he—and just the mere half-thought made him cringe in fear and ache in want all at once—hadn’t he tasted himself on Yusuf’s tongue after, and thought it perfection beyond measure?

“You will show me…” Nicolò paused to catch his breath, and find his bearings. It was hard, with Yusuf so close, looking the way he did, smelling the way he did. Tasting the way he did. “You will show me how to do that?”

Yusuf watched him, his dark eyes wary as they searched Nicolò’s face. He was always ready for Nicolò to retreat into silence and prayer and self-flagellation after they shared moments such as this. A request for more was new. “You would want to?” he questioned carefully.

Nicolò nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He hadn’t known how to say it then, that it was more than just simple lust fueling his need to learn. He had wanted the power too—to make Yusuf feel just as spineless and helpless as Nicolò had felt with Yusuf’s mouth on him. He wanted to take control just as much as he wanted to repay the favor. And if he was going to suffer damnation for his unnatural desires, he wanted to be sure Yusuf would be right there with him.

Nicky shuts his eyes at the memory, not wanting to be overwhelmed too much too soon. It is different now—he does not have such misgivings anymore, nor is he still tormented by questions of faith or fears of hellfire. Too many centuries have passed for such things to rule his heart and mind and body as they once had.

He only has one question now, spoken into Joe’s kiss. “Bedroom?”

“Mm,” Joe shakes his head. “We will make a mess.”

“We always do. That is what the bedroom is for.”

Joe laughs, pulling away. He presses his forehead against Nicky’s and feels him press back, leaning forward to seek out his mouth. “The champagne,” Joe explains, short of breath. “It will make more of a mess than just you and I usually do.”

Nicky nods, acquiescing to this logic. While he prefers a soft bed whenever it’s available, he knows Joe’s foresight will make tomorrow easier. Even after a thousand years, there is nothing worse than having to clean through a hangover. Hosing off the porch will be easy.

“Go on, then,” he tells Joe. He leans forward to capture his lips quickly, but then pulls away, leaving him wanting before the kiss can intensify. “Waste a few hundred euros on me if it makes you happy.”

Joe starts with Nicky’s mouth. Pouring the champagne in, watching his neck as he swallows. Nicky can feel his gaze twofold—half longing lover, half exacting artist. Joe has filled entire notebooks with sketches of Nicky’s neck and Adam’s apple alone. He closes his eyes when he feels Joe’s fingertips along his throat, feeling the muscles work beneath the skin. After another swallow, his hands drop to Nicky’s collar.

He undoes Nicky’s maroon button-down slowly. They both dressed up a little nicely for dinner, as a change of pace, so Joe is careful not to rip any buttons. Nicky watches him in fond appreciation. Even drunk, Joe’s hands are capable. Once the buttons have been undone, Nicky shrugs out of his shirt, draping it carefully over the back of the bench.

Holding his thumb over the rim of the bottle as a makeshift stopper, Joe drips champagne over Nicky’s chest. It sizzles and spreads, coating his nipples, which harden immediately beneath the cold liquid. Joe’s tongue laps Nicky’s nipples to points, twisting as he swirls around the areola. Nicky shifts his hips up, searching for friction, his growing erection uncomfortable in his jeans.

“Patience, amore mio,” Joe murmurs, and Nicky groans, throwing his head back.

“Do not speak to me like that, please,” he mumbles.

Joe grins, dripping champagne in a trail down his lover’s chest. “And why not?” he asks innocently, chasing after the champagne with kisses.

“Because I can’t take it. You know I cannot.”

“Well, you will have to learn,” Joe replies, his hands reaching for the button of Nicky’s jeans as he kneels between his legs. “Because I am going to take my time with you tonight.”

Nicky groans, twisting his face to the side as Joe yanks his pants down past his knees.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Joe snickers. When Nicky does not meet his eye, Joe reaches up to pinch his side gently. “Hey. Don’t look away. I want to watch your face.”

“You know what my face will look like. After an eternity together, after all those damn drawings, I know you have me memorized.”

“Every time is different,” Joe insists, and Nicky melts into him, because it’s true. Making love with Joe is never the same twice, even after all these years. There is always something new, even if it is just the most minor of movements, or the softest of sighs. So Nicky obliges him, locking eyes as Joe bends down and opens his mouth.

Joe swirls his tongue around the head of Nicky’s cock, delicately scooping up the precum gathered there. It is both so careful and so obscene it makes Nicky want to scream.

And he could, he realizes. Their nearest neighbors are over fifteen kilometers away. He could scream and not be heard. The thought sends a ripple of lust through his belly. He could scream all night, and make Joe scream too. He always loves mornings after nights like this, when Joe’s voice is hoarse from spending so many hours crying out for more.

A scrape of teeth brings Nicky back to the present, focusing his thoughts. Joe does not need to pull away to ask: the question—the _demand_ —is clear in his eyes. _What could you possibly be thinking about besides this?_

“I was thinking,” Nicky admits with a smile, “of making you scream all night long.”

Joe’s eyes light up, and he pulls away, replacing his mouth with his hand, tugging hard.

“Hard to scream with you filling my mouth like this.”

“It’ll be easier when I’m filling other parts of you instead.”

Joe’s grip slips, his stroke stuttering to a stop just briefly, before returning to practiced fluidity. 

“Is that a promise, Nico?” he wonders, his voice suddenly husky. 

“A reward, if you like,” Nicky replies lazily. “But only for a job well done.”

Joe smirks at the stipulation, grabbing the champagne bottle. He moves so quickly that for a second Nicky thinks Joe’s going to splash him with it in retaliation. But instead he pours it carefully along the length of Nicky’s swollen erection.

Nicky almost comes just from that: watching Joe pour high-end champagne all over his cock and then rush to lick the underside so as not to lose any. Through some miracle, he holds himself in check.

“Does it taste better like this?” Nicky wonders, unable to take his eyes off of Joe’s tongue as it snakes and swirls around his hard cock.

“Everything tastes better when you’re involved,” Joe murmurs against him. “Everything smells better, too. Colors are brighter when you’re around—even on dark days. Haven’t you ever noticed? The way the sun rises in the morning favors you always, even if it’s through the clouds. You make the world better, just by being here.”

Nicky snorts. “Your world, maybe.”

“No,” Joe replies firmly, “the whole world.”

Nicky sighs, unwilling to argue further when Joe gets like this, and unable, a moment later, as he sets to work in earnest. Nicky’s eyes fall closed as Joe takes him in deep. The pressure of his throat, the feel of his tongue, are too much. But every time Nicky feels himself get too close—every time they start to hit a good rhythm together, and Nicky’s pulling on his hair and moaning his name—Joe pulls away. 

“You need more,” is all he ever says, reaching again and again for the bottle of champagne.

Nicky is certain Joe times it on purpose just to torture him, but he doesn’t waste his breath complaining. Joe would only smile anyway, and test his patience even further. So Nicky sits there and he pants in frustration and he takes it, praying to every god he’s ever heard of that this man he loves takes pity on him soon.

He’s nearly out of his mind from nearing the edge so many times for nothing that when Joe pulls away once more he actually screams aloud, slamming his free fist against the seat of the bench so he won’t tear out Joe’s hair. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it.

“I need more.” Joe is biting the inside of his thighs, ignoring the way Nicky’s lifting his hips, trying to shove his leaking cock closer to Joe’s mouth. “Do we have another?”

Nicky isn’t listening to the question. His mind is hazy from too much drink, blinded by too much desire. Why is he being made to answer questions right now? What question could possibly matter besides the question of when he’ll finally get to come?

“Nicolò, focus.” Joe snaps his fingers in his face. “This one is finished. Did you get another bottle or no?”

“Bottom right, back drawer,” he murmurs, exhausted. He had chilled two, knowing they’d likely run through the first. Though he hadn’t imagined either being put to this type of use.

“Don’t move,” Joe warns, getting to his feet.

The sight of him stepping away jolts something in Nicky, breaking through the haze of alcohol and sex as he realizes all at once what’s happening.

“You will not leave me like this!” he yells at Joe’s retreating back.

“I told you,” Joe calls over his shoulder. “Patience!”

Nicky mutters a curse under his breath, curling his hands around the edge of the bench seat so he won’t touch himself in Joe’s absence. He knows what that will get him, and it’s nothing good. He hears a sharp _pop!_ from somewhere inside, and a moment later Joe is stepping back out onto the porch, smiling at the sight of him.

“Just like I left you.”

Nicky looks down at himself. He’s sweating, his chest and stomach covered in sticky champagne and spit, to say nothing of his cock.

“Didn’t have much choice.” He holds out a hand for the bottle as Joe nears. “May I have some of that first?”

“As much as you like,” Joe says, passing it off.

Nicky takes the bottle, holding Joe’s gaze as he wraps his lips around the rim and takes a deep swallow. Joe stands and watches him, eyes glazed, before seeming to remember when he’d been doing. He drops to one knee, then the other, smoothing his hands along the insides of Nicky’s thighs.

Nicky lowers the bottle, watching as Joe bends down, pressing soft kisses against the reddened skin on the inside of his thighs. It’s too gentle, too slow, and Nicky ends up sliding further down in his seat in his desperation to get Joe’s mouth where he wants it.

Joe takes the bottle when he passes it off. His pour is less precise this time—they’re both far too drunk—and more of the champagne ends up on the floor than on Nicky’s cock. But Joe slurps up what’s there greedily, sucking Nicky’s cock as if it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Nicky slides one of his hands through Joe’s hair, finding purchase amidst his dark curls, twisting just the way Joe likes, rough enough to make him grunt against Nicky’s cock when it hits the back of his throat.

Nicky can tell from the way Joe is kneeling, legs spread, hips rocking in sync with his mouth, that he’s painfully hard. Nicky slides his bare foot up Joe’s thigh, suddenly grateful they’d chosen to dress up sans dress shoes for dinner.

He can feel the hard ridge of Joe’s cock straining against the fabric. His jeans are damp where he’s leaked through, and Nicky rubs the spot insistently with the ball of his foot until Joe has to come up for air.

“Nicky,” Joe chokes out, pulling his mouth away. “If you don’t stop—”

“I’m not,” Nicky tells him. “So keep going.”

He doesn’t mean it to be an order, exactly, but perhaps it comes out more harshly than intended, for Joe lowers his head back down without another word of protest. Nicky strains, struggling to keep his hips level against the onslaught of Joe’s tongue and teeth. He doesn’t want to push for too much and be disappointed yet again. But Joe’s hands are spreading over the tops of his thighs, squeezing and baiting and Nicky obliges, surging up, knowing Joe can take it, knowing he wants it, harder and deeper and faster.

It doesn’t take long, once Joe gives in and lets it happen. They move against each other, rocking and moaning and working in tandem as they have so many times before.

Nicky comes first, swearing through gritted teeth, his entire body seizing as he fills Joe’s mouth and then is swallowed down. Joe works him through it, sucking and licking him, and grinding against Nicky’s foot all the while, until finally Nicky has to pull away, spent and oversensitive. But Joe doesn’t stop—he crawls up Nicky’s body, pressing himself desperately against Nicky’s firm thigh, his breath loud, his hips heavy, and his mind empty of any other purpose until finally the confined pressure and the friction becomes too much and he falls apart too.

Nicky has an arm around his back that holds him close as he shudders through it, groaning, his face buried in the crook of Nicky’s neck all the while.

When Joe manages to look up again and catch Nicky’s eye, he makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat as if just looking at Nicky pains him.

“You are too beautiful.” Joe presses his forehead hard against Nicky’s. “I would bathe you in champagne daily if I could.”

Nicky laughs hoarsely. “Talk about a waste.”

“Mm, no.” Joe shakes his head, pressing kisses along the curve of Nicky’s jaw. “Nothing is a waste when spent on you.”

Nicky smiles, bending forward to kiss him on the mouth. “Love you.”

“Ah, now you say it,” Joe replies. “Always have to work for it, don’t I? Never comes cheap with you.”

“Quiet,” Nicky grins, cupping Joe’s face in his hands and kissing him again.

They rest there for a while, slowly coming back down to earth. It isn’t until Joe tries to shift position that he remembers.

“Shit,” Joe sighs, staring down at the wet mess staining his pants. “I really liked these jeans.”

“Mm, you can wash them,” Nicky soothes. A moment later he grins. “Or don’t—keep them as a reminder of tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll need reminders,” Joe chuckles. “This memory will not leave my mind for some time.”

Nicky smiles. “It won’t leave mine, either.”

Joe kisses him again, drawing away only so he can take another pull from the bottle of champagne at their feet. There is less left inside than he expects, and he curses softly when he unknowingly swallows the last bit.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, kissing Nicky’s forehead in apology for stealing the final taste. “Thought there was more.”

“Mm,” Nicky murmurs, “do not worry, habibi, there is. I bought you a case.”

“A _case_?” Joe asks incredulously. “You bought a _case_ of thousand-euro champagne?”

“Please do not do the math,” Nicky sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes. “It is a truly embarrassing sum. And you were never supposed to find out,” he chides, straightening up. “I was going to parcel them out carefully for special occasions. I had a plan.”

“Of course you did.” Joe grins, leaning over to kiss him hard on the mouth. “You perfect man.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this. Let me know below! :)


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